From Where You Are
by whispers of willows
Summary: His military uniform had somehow, after her death, become hers. A character study of Mac Taylor.
1. I: Heaven

_So far away from where you are  
These miles have torn us worlds apart  
And I miss you  
Yeah, I miss you  
So far away from where you are  
Standing underneath the stars.  
_And I wish you were here.

He could remember how she looked in the light. An angel, wrapped in the dark auras of the city, dwarfed by human skin. Most days, when he resented her death, thinking of such things like heaven and winged creatures that seemed to have a whole lot less to worry about than him just left him emptied of hope and filled, instead, with questions. Why _her? _Why _my _angel? Don't _you _have enough up there in your little collection?

It was after dusk and it seemed like just another one of those nights where the gloom penetrated skin and seeped into every waking thought. Trying to find comfort in a pillow that just wouldn't hold much of anything apart from limp feathers was useless, no matter how many times he beat his frustrations into it. He sighed and rolled off the sheets, groping through the odd shadows cast by the glare of the lights outside his window to find the bathroom.

Once inside, his finger slid over the light switch and they flickered on overhead, trying to find its equilibrium. As the light shifted overhead, he buried his face in the pooling water slowly drifting through the cracks of his fingers – a makeshift sieve. The faucet switched off and he just stood there, drinking everything in for a moment before deciding sleep was an impossibility for the night and grabbing his coat for a walk.

Once underneath the stars, he began to melt into the backdrop of the dynamic labyrinth that was the city. The cabs that passed left a wake of sated air behind them and the blinking glare of the fluorescent lights fell on him like broken shades of glass. Buildings towered over his head, colossal sentinels on the night watch, rising with weary resignation. There were a few people braving the last few breaths of dying night, but not many. He felt alone and that was what he wanted – solitude.

He wondered if they ever stopped once to consider the difference between death and murder, those people that passed him by without a second glance. Between life and existence. If they ever felt anchored to the bottom of depthless mourning, feeling like they were surrounded by air and still drowning. Or how selfish time was, brushing past each loss like it was just clockwork.

Another cog in the machine; it would be replaced. He was tired of feeling like a cog in the great machine of time. He wanted _meaning_ again.

And as he opened his eyes, he found himself standing before the gates of Ground Zero, a graveyard in the epicenter of life.

_I wonder if you can still hear me from where you are._


	2. II: Hold

_I miss all the little things  
I never thought that they'd mean everything to me  
Yeah, I miss you  
And I wish you were here._

He was afraid to touch it. Even with gloves, the thought of putting his hands on the material was always pushed aside without a moment of hesitation. In his mind, it didn't belong to him – it was an otherworldly possession, something he was only allowed to see, but never touch. His military uniform had somehow, after her death, become hers.

Some would probably say it was strange, but it was no more illogical to him than any other sort of ritual, like people washing their hands ten times a day or would only wear a certain color. Besides, he had long since passed that stage in his life where he actually cared what people thought; it was the memory of his dead wife lingering in that closet, motionless on its hanger. He would keep it for as long as he was able, right next to the beach ball.

Today, he tried not to look at it. Some mornings he just couldn't bear the sight of the shadowed, sage green attire because it meant she was dead and gone. It meant that the traces of warmth he'd sworn he'd felt beside him in his bed were only the lingering tendrils of a dream.

He could still remember why it smelled like her, the long nights that seemed to drone on without cessation for him were the very same that she suffered his absence. There was a certain picture in his head, one that he couldn't erase no matter how hard he tried, of a young blonde woman sprawled across the coverlets and pressing his ceremonial dress against her, the threads conforming to the shape of her body. Just to be close to him. Just to feel that he wasn't so far away as the cold reality told her he was.

It was a picture that haunted him – he wanted, more than ever, to just let it go. But he couldn't.

Work became a haven. As he walked down the halls, he couldn't help but consider the irony of it all. How time could so deftly twist things into gnarled half-truths and render them unrecognizable in a matter of minutes. He tried not to dwell on it for too long; opening the door to find that long desk behind a glass panel was like coming home.


	3. III: Heartbeat

_I feel the beating of your heart  
I see the shadows of your face  
Just know that wherever you are  
Yeah, I miss you  
And I wish you were here_

_Her hand moved over his chest. _

"_I can feel your heartbeat."_

_It was no more than a whisper, an aching flutter in the dark. The rain was pouring outside and the shadows on her face were mottled, little gray stains on her pale cheeks. _

_She sat up quickly, as if startled, with a spontaneous rush of thought and the faint rustling of sheets followed the sudden movement. "Did you know that an elephant's heartbeat is about 30 beats per minute?"_

"_Are you calling me an elephant?"_

"_No," she laughed, and caught his smirk in the gloom. "It's just…moving so fast…" her hand slid over the skin again, feeling the rhythmic pounding against his ribcage. "Reminded me is all."_

_He threaded his fingers deeper through the waves of long hair._

It was the completely off-the-wall pillow talk he missed the most sometimes. How she would start counting the tiles on the ceiling while tracing the lines in the palm of his hand. Once she even sang to him, some foreign lullaby she said she'd learned once in college – she could never remember how or why or from who she'd learned the mesmerizing lyrics, but she still knew. Claire was always irresistibly enigmatic that way. Something about her he would have never traded for the world.

He still kept her pillow beside him, an unspoken sort of act of faith that someday, perhaps, someone would take her place. Not in her, but in himself. He still didn't have the strength to let her go completely, but was beginning to give away pieces of her – keeping only the last.

Mac Taylor was never the sort of man that carried on one-sided conversations, but sometimes memories flooded back to him in bursts that reminded him of color so vivid and imaginative that he ached to articulate them. His fingertips gently grazed the hem of her pillow, free of its case, and he sighed.

"Remember that time we were in Central Park? You'd insisted we buy white bread at the shop across the street to feed the ducks and it all ended up at the bottom of the pond when you fell in…" he paused to laugh, recalling the image of himself in a rush to pull off his jacket. "I already knew you were a good swimmer, but I insisted on jumping in after you anyway. I guess that's the stubborn man in me…you always called him a gentleman, but I…I don't think I ever thought of him that way. You were always the optimist."

The smile turned bitter. "I would've jumped in after you, Claire, if they would've let me. I would have found you…no amount of wreckage could have stopped me, if they would have let me pass…"

Mac hesitated for a moment, but ultimately brought the pillow up to his chest, cradling it in his arms. For a moment, he imagined it was her – warmed by his body heat and just as soft. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

He breathed into the night, a heartfelt sigh that he hoped she could hear. "I hope you can forgive me…wherever you are."

_I'm so sorry._

He buried his face in the pillow and his resolve broke as Mac Taylor's quiet strength faded away.

And he cried just for her.

* * *

AN: I know that, on some sites, it's a big no-no to write songfics. This could be a songfic...it's all based on perception. If it is to you, then I suppose it is. To me, it's more of a writing exercise. Hasn't been edited so please excuse any mistakes.

The lyrics belong to Lifehouse from the song "From Where You Are". The song was powerful to me and just reminded me so much of Mac and his loss. So this is just a character study on the man himself - Det. Mac Taylor of CSI. Feedback is welcomed and I hope you'll enjoy this. Thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or Det. Mac Taylor.


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